Churchill's Hour (29 page)

‘Nowt like that. Asked me to thank you fer yer scrambled egg, like, said it's better'n Lord Beaver's caviar. Then started talking about Mr Hess.'

‘What's so odd about that?' the cook enquired, wiping her brow. ‘My egg's better than any Russian muck. And that old Hess was about the only decent present he's had this year.'

‘No, cook, it's
Mr
Hess now.
Mr
Hess this,
Mr
Hess that. All of a sudden it's like they're old friends,' Sawyers said, nibbling on an edge of toast. ‘He were even asking me if I'd like to serve breakfast to him one day. Like he might even come to Chequers. As a guest.'

‘You're not pulling my leg, are you, Mr Sawyers?'

‘Not even a little, cook. He says that a new year demands new friends—and
Mr
Hess might be a man who's wi' us rather than agin us.'

‘What do he mean by that, then?'

‘Haven't faintest idea. War breeds strange bedfellows.'

‘Too right, in this house.' Mrs Landemare giggled.

‘But he were back to his normal self by time he'd finished breakfast. Shouting and hollering as usual,
he were.' He wiped the crumbs of toast from his mouth. ‘Any chance of another slice, cook?'

“Course.'

He stretched in contentment, his task completed. ‘And can yer do that washing-up a little quieter, girl,' he said, turning to Héloise at the sink. ‘Racket's proper doing me head in.'

Tojo didn't celebrate Churchill's birthday. Instead, he seethed. He raged. He accused Britain and America of trying to ‘exploit the one billion people of East Asia to satisfy their greed.' He insisted that Japan would go forward no matter what, even over the corpses of fallen Japanese comrades. He said they must ‘purge East Asia with a vengeance of the practices of Great Britain and the United States.' These were not off-the-cuff remarks, but words supplied by the Japanese Government's official translator.

The following day, Monday, the first day of December, the Japanese Government ordered their diplomatic missions in every part of the world to destroy their code books. Yet another sign they were expecting war.

But they did not break off negotiations in Washington.

Still the diplomats talked.

As the hours passed, Churchill became like a man possessed, a great sea beating upon the rocks, roaring, impatient, implacable. His demand for news was remorseless, particularly from the Admiralty and the code-breakers at Bletchley Park. It had become clear from the pattern of naval signals emanating from Tokyo that a Japanese fleet of considerable size was somewhere on the seas and had been under way for several days, but in spite of his rage, no one could tell him where.

Shortly before midnight, he asked his private secretary to contact the Admiralty for the latest news. The Duty Captain explained that there was none, and promised to ring back as soon as he had any information.

An hour later Churchill demanded the Admiralty be contacted again. The Duty Captain, full of sleep and injury, insisted that no event of any consequence had taken place anywhere in the world and tartly reminded Churchill's secretary of his earlier promise to contact him whenever it did.

At two-thirty in the morning, yet another call was made. Roused from a deep and necessary sleep, the Duty Captain let fly with language that would have done justice to a quarterdeck under direct enemy fire. A torrent of abuse tumbled down the line and when the old man, pacing back and forth, heard the noise, he assumed great events had at last taken place. He grabbed the
phone. His reward was a remorseless outpouring of insults.

‘Captain,' he said in his most distinctive growl when at last the officer paused for breath, ‘you have summed up my sentiments entirely. And if you fight as violently as you profane, then we shall prevail and I shall forget we have spoken. Goodnight.'

Tuesday, the second day of December. Tokyo sent the signal.

‘Climb Mount Niitaka 1208.'

The signal was sent in its top-level JN-25 naval code. It was to become one of the most notorious orders ever given in military history. Tokyo had made up its mind. The point of no return had been reached.

It was also the day that the
Prince of Wales
arrived in Singapore, accompanied by the battlecruiser
Repulse
and several support ships. They steamed in single line into the naval base, watched by thousands of English, Chinese and Malays who had gathered on the rooftops and who greeted them with fanfare and overwhelming expressions of relief. They believed that the arrival of the fleet would force the Japanese to put their sabres back into their scabbards.

But already it was too late.

Codes are constructed, and codes are broken. The British were particularly good at breaking codes. They'd decrypted many of the Japanese naval and diplomatic ciphers, including JN-25, yet even with such an advantage it still didn't reveal all. However, it gave a shape to things, like a man using his sense of touch in the dark.

Churchill received the latest intelligence as he was eating lunch in the makeshift dining room that had been constructed in the basement of Downing Street as protection from the bombing. He was eating on his own—an exceptional occurrence—and was lost deep within his thoughts. He was like a relative waiting for a child to die. His head was down, he was uncommunicative, monosyllabic, his eyes twitching with every movement at the door, braced for terrible news. He was pushing a lamb chop distractedly around his plate when the telephone rang. It was the duty officer in the naval section hut at Bletchley Park. Immediately Churchill's eyes grew alert. The two men pushed buttons so that the conversation was scrambled.

‘A JN-25 transmission from Tokyo, Prime Minister. It reads: “Climb Mount Niitaka 1208”.'

‘What's it mean?'

‘In all honesty, we don't know. Yet at least.'

‘Guesses?'

‘Niitaka is the highest mountain in their empire. A puzzle as to why they should instruct the navy
to climb a mountain—but it can't be taken literally, of course.'

‘An attack code.'

‘Possibly.'

‘If not, what else?'

‘We don't know.'

‘It's your job to know!'

‘It's only just arrived, sir. We've had no time—'

‘I can give you anything you want, man, anything—except time!'

‘I'm sorry, Prime Minister.'

Even through the echo of the scrambling device, Churchill could hear the strain in the other man's voice. He knew that at Bletchley they were working to their limit, laying his ‘golden eggs'. It might be lunchtime in Downing Street, but he guessed the other man had probably worked through the previous night, probably many previous nights, and had little idea what time of day it was. Churchill had the highest regard for the code-breakers and analysts at Bletchley. He had visited them only recently and seen one of them being physically sick with the tension. Yet still he had to push.

‘No need for apology. Only information. What do the numbers mean?'

‘1208? Probably the date. The eighth of December.'

‘But if it's an attack code, why are they giving so much prior notice?'

‘Well…I'm guessing now…something has to happen before it can be implemented, some preparation made—if it
is
an attack code. Perhaps we'll get more of the jigsaw in a while.'

‘You will—'

‘Of course, sir.'

‘Any time. Day or night. Don't hesitate for a second.'

When he sat down again, the lamb chop lay glutinous and ignored. He didn't flinch or twitch as Sawyers removed it, nor when it was replaced by a slice of Mrs L's apple pie, which was also left to grow cold with neglect. When he did eventually rise to his feet, it was slowly, as though he were weighed down with concerns.

‘Bring it to the study,' he mumbled at Sawyers.

‘What, the apple pie?'

‘No, dammit, the…'—he waved around, his mind elsewhere—‘whatever it is I'm drinking.' And disappeared like a sleepwalker.

Yet when Sawyers found him in the first-floor study, he was once again transformed. The lethargy had gone, and in its place was a dervish who danced around the central table as he pored over the pages of several atlases.

‘I can't locate it, Sawyers. Where the hell is it?'

‘Where's what?' the valet asked, setting down the glass.

‘Mount Bloody Nittacky or whatever it's called
Gimme…'—he wagged a finger in the direction of the bookcase—‘the encyclopedia.'

And soon it was found. ‘It's not in Japan at all. It's in Formosa. One of the bits they grabbed in 1895.' He began reading out loud. ‘Jade Mountain. Also known as Mount Morrison. Hah! Y'see, man, we got there, too!'

‘Never had much of a head fer heights meself,' Sawyers muttered.

‘But that's it.' Churchill thumped the table in excitement. ‘To climb great heights is a noble feat. The message implies courage, dedication, pride, achievement. The conquest of extraordinary heights. That must be it, don't you see? Conquest. It's the attack order!'

‘Mebbe.'

Churchill had become a man possessed, bursting with impatience as he raced through the collection of books. He grabbed atlas, then encyclopedia and gazetteer, whipping the pages back and forth in his haste. Sawyers removed the glass—a fine claret—to a safe distance.

‘But one thing I cannot understand, Sawyers. Why—
why
—decide now about an attack on the eighth of the month, dammit? Six days hence.' He stood over the books, searching for the elusive answer. ‘It's not to give them time for preparation—they have had that, they know what they're doing. We should never underestimate those monkeys. So—
they must need the time—not to prepare—but—to arrive. Wherever it is they're going. That's it! They're already under way! But where?'

He rummaged furiously across more pages, but found no inspiration.

‘How long does Bletchley think they've been at sea? Six days? A week? So they're halfway to wherever it is they're going. At—what?—three hundred miles a day? Perhaps a little more? But probably not on a direct course.' Churchill had served as First Lord of the Admiralty during the early part of this war and through much of the last; he knew his dreadnoughts and destroyers. ‘Let's say a radius of around three thousand miles.'

He fiddled with the atlas, sticking his thumb on Mount Niitaka and drawing a circle with his index finger. It cut through Australia. ‘That doesn't bloody work.' He replaced his thumb over the mainland of Japan, experimenting. ‘Of course, three thousand miles exactly! Singapore! Or the Philippines. But…' He stood like a pathologist over a corpse, dissecting the parts, trying to see how it all fitted together. ‘That would take the Japanese task force across some of the busiest sea lanes in the world, yet no one's seen a thing.' He shook his head and drew another circle. His finger dropped off the page. ‘It's the projection, don't you see, Sawyers. The map's centred on Europe, with Japan at its far edge. That's no good. We've got to look at things through Japanese eyes.
They see themselves as the centre of the world, the heart of civilization, not its distant edge.'

He cast around the room for a moment, trying to think of any book or gazetteer that might give him the answer, until he saw an antique globe that stood in the corner. It had often been a favourite toy. He would sometimes give it a whirl, glorying in how much of the globe was coloured red, but that held no interest for him now. His thumb was on Japan once more, drawing a wide arc. Through Singapore, Burma, China, the frozen wastes of Siberia, the Aleutian Islands…

‘Oh, my God.'

With just a little flexing, the three thousand miles stretched all the way to Hawaii.

‘Pearl Harbor,' he gasped.

The simplicity of it all swept away his doubt. With a finger and thumb he had discovered what the intelligence agencies of the entire world had failed to see.

‘Sawyers, I believe they intend to attack Pearl Harbor.'

The servant chewed on his lip. ‘What'll we do about it, then?'

Churchill stared out of the window. Through the bare trees of the park he could see the outline of Buckingham Palace. Fluttering from its flagpole was the Royal Standard, the flag of Britain's islands and her Empire. How could he permit it to be lost?

When he spoke, his words came wearily, as though they had travelled an immense distance.

‘If we alert the Americans, they will denounce the Japanese. Then the attack will never happen. The Japanese will turn back their fleet, say it was a training exercise, that it was never their intention…' Churchill was standing so close to the window that his breath began to form a mist upon the pane. He wiped it clear with a cuff.

‘Their fleet would disperse, but the mass of their soldiery would continue to pour into Indo-China. They will attack Singapore. The volcano will spew forth. Then Britain will be at war with Japan as well as with Germany. A war we cannot hope to win. While America talks and America fiddles, we shall be left alone with the wolf at our throat. And that would be the end.'

‘You sure, zur?'

‘It's not a mathematical equation, Sawyers, but even if it were no more than a strong possibility…'

‘So—what'll we do?' Sawyers repeated.

‘If I fail to tell the Americans, I shall be rightly condemned. But if I do tell them, I may be condemning not only myself but every Briton in the Empire. That would be a desecration of the whole of our history,' he whispered. ‘How could I do that? How can I decide? But we have until the eighth. Time to think, Sawyers, time to reflect. To pray for God's guidance.'

And in an instant the hesitation was gone. Churchill turned from the window and grabbed his servant by the arms.

‘We must say nothing! To anyone! Never breathe a word of this, even under torture, Sawyers. Not another soul must know. Do you understand?'